Art

The Art Gallery of New South Wales would usually remind me of high school days where once a year we enjoyed a day of freedom wandering from picture to picture, completing excursion-justifying activity sheets. This time, however, things were different. At the invitation of my stencil-swinging friend, Paul Shanta, I found myself in my first art sale. The Entrance Court of the gallery had transformed into an auction house for the eagre minions of would-be artists and art dealers.

A room full of chardonnay-sipping freeloaders ogling scarcely covered canvases portraying the ambiguity of society’s conflict with single-ply toilet paper can be a bit intimidating at first. For the schoolboy used to seeing little more than sensible landscapes from sensible Englishmen in the state’s biggest gallery, attempting to understand the cacophony of artworks with no common theme, medium or price range was enough to cause complete cranial collapse.

For those in the know, the event was nowhere near as confusing. Basically, if you didn’t understand why someone wants to spend $1500 on a used tissue, it is best to occupy yourself with bread and dip, praying for the penguin with the drinks tray to walk past again. Although indebted aristocrats have been pawning Daddy’s collection of Rembrandts in this manner for centuries, one fundamental remains consistent - art is worth what someone is willing to pay for it.

 I may not understand the Empire, but I know what I like.

Art is defined and redefined to the point of pure lunacy. At its best, art can define a generation and capture moments of spiritual transcendence. At its worst, art celebrates self-serving nihilism, reducing even the idea of expression to loathing indulgence. Expensive on the mind as well as the wallet, art is the suffering of a skilled painter who spends two years on the perfect landscape while the mere name of a known painter can eclipse his entire life’s income by selling a blank canvas. Art costs.

To those clinging to Gothic architecture or the Renaissance as the standard of artistic achievement (such as your author), contemporary art is not kind. Is it the name that takes precedence over the image? The cash over the comment? As Salvador Dali once said, “When the creations of a genius collide with the mind of a layman, and produce an empty sound, there is little doubt as to which is at fault.” Forgive the pun, but there must be a happy medium when it comes to art, rather than just those who get it and those who like the footy.

With the fine art trade grossing $3 billion worldwide in 2004, there seems little danger in this phenomenon ending any time soon and that it pays to be recognised. An investment for some, a passion for others, art can open doorways to thinking as effectively as it does wallets. At the end of the day, know what you like, because by the time you finish scratching your head while trying to figure out the sneeze-pattern where a picture used to be, you will have just bid $2000 for it.